~ The Man in the Iron Mask ~
It is dusk in the port city of Le Havre. The pink and purple sun casts its last rays upon the undulating sea, the masts of dozens of foreign ships, and the tops of the city's tallest spires. The streets teem with armed men—Hessian mercenaries, Scottish pirates, Haitian cutthroats, Irish swashbucklers, and grim-faced French rogues. As the coach draws closer to the town square, the crowd of ruffians falls behind and alongside them.
“Have you Tupen?” a French horseman asks Cyrano.
“I do, but he is not for you, sir. I bring him for a man of…sterner face.”
The horseman smiles, his teeth a yellow row of broken promises. “Indeed, Monsieur. You will find no face sterner than his. Allow me to escort you.”
Cyrano nods. “Permitted. Lead on.”
By the time the coach reaches the cobblestone town square, they are surrounded by one thousand hard-faced men. Facing them in the clearing sits two figures atop great white stallions. The first, Cyrano notices, is none other than the Madame Josephine, wife of Napoleon Bonaparte, a lovely woman of proud, yet genial bearing. On the second horse is the enemy—a tall, muscular man with a featureless mask of iron that encases his entire head, making it seem larger than it truly is. The man wears a cape of royal purple trimmed with golden thread, a gold-plated gorget, black doe skin gloves, high riding boots, and a gilded flamberge slung on his back.
Cyrano stops the coach, stands atop the driver's seat, and delivers a majestic bow with the removal of his grand hat.
“I am Hercule-Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac!” Murmurs erupt throughout the crowd. “I come to render up to you that which is yours—General Claude-Luc de Tupen—in exchange for the freedom of Josephine. You must be The Man in the Iron Mask.”
There is a moment of silence as all eyes of the ruffians shift to their leader.
“I am,” says the well-dressed figure. “For the moment.” In an overly-grand gesture, he extends his hand. “Give the iron key to Tupen, and have him bring it me.”
With a flourish of his cape, Cyrano bounds from the seat to the ground. He walks to the coach door and opens it. Out comes Quasimodo holding Tupen by the arm.
“Tis the Hunchback of Notre Dame!” a French rogue in the crowd exclaims. “I saw him get whipped for attempting to carry off that murderess witch!”
More murmurs erupt throughout the throng of villains. They mutter questions of curiosity about the two deformed Parisians.
Cyrano removes the iron key from his pocket and hands it to Tupen. Shaking, the aristocrat takes the key and parts company with his captors. Tupen feigns fearlessness poorly as he makes his way to mounted terror masked in iron. He hands the man the key and asks, “What do you want of me, Monsieur? Have I done you some wrong?”
The Man holds up the key, regarding it like a holy relic. “On the contrary. You have done me many a good service.”
He inserts the key into a tiny hole just behind the left ear of his mask. With a twist comes a pop, and the Iron Mask comes loose. Taking it off, he looks down upon the awe-struck face of Tupen.
“I—Impossible!” Tupen exclaims, his hands grasping the sides of his shocked face. “They said you lost your head!”
The Man's hair is long and greasy, as is his beard, but his bearing displays grave dignity. “Say my name, cousin. Tell them all that I am who I claim to be!”
Tupen bends the knee and shouts with mad jubilation. “God be praised! You are my King and kin! Louis the XIV of France!”
King Louis raises his harsh eyes to survey the surrounding throng of men. “You all wanted proof of who I am. Here, you have it. Now, will you fight for me, to reforge my kingdom?”
One thousand knees bend to touch the paved ground as one thousand throats wail in the affirmative. “Hail, King Louis!” they all chant.
“You!” Quasimodo shouts at the king, loud enough to disrupt the chanting. With a finger as long and thick as a bratwurst he points at the focus of his rage.
“You condemned Esmeralda to death! You ordered those soldiers to get her and hang her!”
Louis only grins and shifts his icy stare to Cyrano, who is the only man that looks unmoved by the revelation. “You knew?” he asks imperturbably.
With his elegant hands, Cyrano gestures as if writing in the air. “It was a mathematical deduction. Only a man of your genius and ambition could stage so bold a play for power. Yet, I lacked the necessary numbers to prove the answer true. Indulge us, your grace. How does one survive a liaison with Madame Guillotine? How did your royal blood remain unspilt during the Reign of Terror?”
Louis tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and inhales the evening air with relish.
“You are my guests. Therefore, I shall entertain you with a story. My mother gave birth to twin boys—me and my identical brother, Phillipe. Whilst I was raised and groomed for the throne, Phillipe was brought up in secret. When our parents died, it was my intention to keep that secret at all costs. I had Phillipe imprisoned and fitted with this very mask.”
With a dissatisfied grunt, Louis tosses the iron mask on the cobblestone street.
“For six years I reigned, waging wars and throwing the best parties the nobility had ever seen. I was perfect in all my dealings save for two mistakes; I let my brother live, and I failed to keep my peasants in check.
A group of my own musketeers were my downfall. They had uncovered the secret of Phillipe and hatched a plan of the lowest cunning and treason most vile. They freed him, removed his mask, captured me, and switched us out. I was left to rot in the castle dungeon while Phillipe usurped my throne and my very identity.”
Louis lets out an evil laugh. “He had such high hopes to undo all what I had accomplished. He wanted to end the wars I started and restore goodwill between the common folk and the aristocracy, but it was too late. Not a year after our switch did the Reign of Terror begin. The castle was stormed by the starving and unwashed peasants he sought in vain to please. They actually freed me—the man they truly hated—from my own cell, and dragged my brother off to the guillotine for the supposed crimes I had committed. So, by imprisoning me, by stealing my name and crown, Phillipe had inadvertently saved my life, sacrificing himself for me!”
He laughs long and loud into the darkening heavens. “I forgive you, brother! You weak and traitorous fool!”
The laughs continue until Cyrano interrupts. “God rest his soul. And since then you've been scheming with loyalists and mercenaries to take back your birthright. All you needed was to prove to them who you are.”
“And are you not still loyal to me, De Bergerac?” Louis asks, holding out an opened hand. “You were ever a loyal soldier, worthy of being a musketeer, I dare say. Renew your oath of loyalty to me, and I will make you Marshal of France.”
Cyrano smiles and gives a curious bow. “One deal at a time, your grace. I believe you owe us something—the freedom of Madame Josephine. Her husband is most heartsick from her absence.”
Louis smirks. “Of course. I am a king of my word.” He looks to Josephine and says, “My lady, you are free.”
Josephine smiles and inclines her head. “My most profound thanks, your grace, but freedom is flavorless compared to thy tender, sweet company.”
She looks to Cyrano and Quasimodo, a wicked smile on her rose red lips. “Please, inform the First Consul that, while the life he provided me brought me great joys and comforts, they are naught compared to the joys and comforts of a queen of France, which his grace here has promised to make me.”
At this, Cyrano stumbles and clutches his breast. “Oh, treachery! Oh, false and faithless love! You were not kidnapped but left of your own accord, seduced by the promise of a crown! Madame, how can you betray Napoleon, the champion of liberty?”
Josephine laughs shrilly atop her mount and exchanges a smile with Louis. “Rulership is the only true liberty, Monsieur De Bergerac.”
Louis laughs. “Well said, my love.”
With a whip of his reins he rid
es about the square, raising a triumphant fist, and addressing his army.
“I have Napoleon’s heart! Without it, he is useless! The Bach of the Battlefield has lost his muse to me! Together, we will take back my throne and my land and butcher all who stand in our way! Together, we will ravish Lady Liberty!”
The throng cheers and raises their swords and firearms in mad fervor. Louis guides his horse to Cyrano and Quasimodo.
“Go, the both of you. Tell Napoleon of his loss. Cyrano, you disappoint me for siding with that stunted Corsican. And you—” he turns to meet the hateful gaze of the Hunchback. “When I reclaim Paris, I will have you whipped again in the public square, and the lashes will not cease until every inch of ugliness is whipped from your misshapen skull. Now, go!”
Cyrano places a hand on Quasimodo's shoulder, pacifying him with the touch. The Hunchback turns his head to see his friend mouth the words, “Come, brother. Let's away. We are out-numbered.”
“But we are not out-manned!” exclaims the disembodied voice of the Phantom.
“Erik!” Cyrano exclaims, looking about for the elusive man.
Quasimodo's good eye widens as his thick lips quiver in fear and amazement. “I…I…heard him. I heard him in my head…and in my heart!”
Louis scowls and looks this way and that. “Who said that? Who dares challenge me?”
The Phantom appears out of thin air in the square's center, right between Louis and his fellow bards. Looking up at the mounted monarch, he says with no shortage of bravado, “Ah, to be an outcast, forced to wear a mask, forced to live underground while those above you live in splendor and happiness. Such was your brother's pain, and such was my own. Would that you had remained in that prison long enough to learn sympathy and compassion for your fellow man. But now, it is too late for poor Phillipe, too late for poor Erik, and too late for you, Louis!”
The royal lip of Louis XIV curls in anger as he draws a flintlock pistol from his belt, points it three feet from Erik's chest, and pulls the trigger. With a loud report and a puff of smoke, the bullet enters the dark clad form of the Phantom and…nothing happens.
With a maniacal laugh, the Phantom raises his arms and levitates as high as a house into the air.
“It all makes sense now! I know why I am still here!” All around, the ruffians marvel in fright.
Louis' horse whinnies in fear and bucks away. He struggles to stay mounted.
“Shoot him!” he orders his men. “It is only stage magic!”
Cyrano laughs at the sight of his floating friend and draws his sword. “I see no stage here, your grace.”
All around, guns are pointed and raised. Hundreds of shots ring out, and very few miss their mark. But the mark is unaffected and merely laughs at them all.
“Oh, what an enthusiastic audience! I will give them a performance to die for!”
Louis draws his mighty flamberge and urges his horse forward, charging with full fury at Quasimodo and Cyrano. Dodging and rolling, both men break to either side. The horses hitched to their coach shriek in fright and run away, trampling and killing a few ruffians as they thunder down a dark street.
Nighttime has sharpened, and the battle has begun!
Chapter 11